When British troops landed in India the residents, who spoke unstressed tongues, noticed a similarity between the "Left! Right!" marching cadence and the binary stresses of the English language. We accept the alternating stresses but why do we describe our speech as iambic as opposed to trochaic?
Part of the reason is in the effect of pronouns and articles on our subject-verb-object pattern:
"She saw | the boy."
Another reason is that ending on an accented syllable sounds more momentous, decisive or conclusive. Trailing off seems tentative, wistful, or uncertain. Thus, our poetry is iambic (de-DUM) or, occasionally, anapestic (de-de-DUM), and very rarely trochaic (DEM-de), dactyllic (DUM-de-de), or amphibrachic (de-DUM-de).
What do we do when we want to finish with a flourish? In sonnets we go from ending lines with distant/alternating rhymes to a couplet. Typical would be the ababcc scheme in this sestet:
Come autumn, combines comb the fields to harvest gold canola oil for toast before November yields its cold. Like whitened coffee, soil beneath integument snow extols the blood and bone of remnant souls.
A less formal approach is to use extra stresses. In iambic work this creates a "Ta-Da!" effect, often as part of a double iamb. For example, we note the last line of "Kemla's Aloha":
You showed me home is a person not a place. I watch as time collapses in your wake, as every story, fully told, can trace a common path, each stream to the same lake.
A more elaborate technique is classical diaeresis, ending a poem with a word in the verse's cadence. For example, the first stanza of the iambic pentameter "Beans" ends with an iamb; all previous disyllabic words are trochaic.
September came like winter's ailing child, but left us viewing Valparaiso's pride. Your face was always saddest when you smiled. You smiled as every doctored moment lied. You lie with orphans' parents, long reviled.
Hand this text to someone and have them read it aloud. Notice how "reviled" sounds like a finale? This parallels the finality of the parents' death. By contrast, the second stanza uses the spondaic approach, creating a sense of lingering consequence.
As close as coppers, yellow beans still line Mapocho's banks. It leads them to the sea; entwined on rocks and saplings each new vine recalls that dawn in nineteen seventy three when every choking bastard weed grew wild.
The stanza contains two iambs, "entwined" and "recalls", but that final line begins with, arguably, three pounding iambs ("ev'ry choking bastard"), setting up another instance of diaeresis, but the slightly less conclusive spondee, "grew wild", leaves on a more ominous note.
The first thing we should learn about any technique is when not to use it.
1 : the art of speaking or writing effectively: such as a : the study of principles and rules of composition formulated by critics of ancient times b : the study of writing or speaking as a means of communication or persuasion 2a : skill in the effective use of speech b : a type or mode of language or speech also : insincere or grandiloquent language 3 : verbal communication : discourse
1a : the ordinary language people use in speaking or writing b : a literary medium distinguished from poetry especially by its greater irregularity and variety of rhythm and its closer correspondence to the patterns of everyday speech 2 : a dull or ordinary style, quality, or condition
The average North American doesn't attend poetry readings or slams and it certainly doesn't buy volumes of contemporary poetry. We have been exposed to what Leonard Cohen would describe as "other forms of boredom advertised as poetry":
Today we honor our three captains for their actions and impact in a time of uncertainty and need.
They have taken the lead, exceeding all expectations and limitations, uplifting their communities and nation as leaders, healers, and educators.
James has felt the wounds of warfare but this warrior still shares his home with at-risk kids. During COVID he's even lent a hand, live-streaming football for family and fans.
Trimaine is an educator who works non-stop providing his community with hot spots, laptops, and tech workshops, so his students have all the tools they need to succeed in life and in school.
Susie is the ICU nurse manager at a Tampa hospital. Her chronicles prove that even in tragedy, hope is possible. She lost her grandmothers to the pandemic, and fights to save other lives in the ICU battle zone defining the front line heroes risking their lives for our own.
Let us walk with these warriors, charge on with these champions, and carry forth the call of our captains. We celebrate them by acting with courage and compassion, by doing what is right and just.
For while we honor them today, it is they who every day honor us.
That is it. Those are the only four 21st century "poems" that a sizeable minority, if not a majority, of North Americans have witnessed. (For what it's worth, Maya Angelou's poem from Clinton's 1993 inauguration was significantly better.)
Whether this is prose or rhetoric and whether or not we appreciate the heartfelt sentiments, it is not being memorized and performed--"covered"--the way songs are, the way poetry was when it was alive. These pieces aren't quoted at all, let alone from memory. By our inaction you, I, and everyone else--including the author--have spoken: "None of this is poetry." The lack of mnemonics (other that some overconsonance at Biden's inauguration) shows a lack of effort and/or intent to create poetry.
"But what is the harm?" one might ask of this misapprehension.
The next time someone tries to define poetry by its content, demanding that poetry be thought provoking or poignant, ask the person what prose authors they read. Suggesting that poetry has some monopoly on and obligation to limit itself to philosophy or romance, aside from being laughably easy to disprove, does a disservice to all of our communication. It delegitimizes the bulk of our canon: humor, biography, bawdiness, commentary, narrative, history, description, etc.
"Only ignorance is fatal."
On January 6th, 2021, the world saw what happens when deliberate misrepresentation becomes widespread. The only defense is education and reflection, preferably in that order.
Find some words worth memorizing. Carry them with you, using spare moments to learn them. Practice in a mirror. Make a video. Go to an open mic and perform them. Carry them with you for the rest of your life.
Well, it depends on your filter. We bear in mind that, during the art form's struggle to exist during these last 50 years, the anglophone world has experienced only three poems together: "Praise Song for the Day", "One Today", and now, ironically, "The Hill We Climb". To be sure, Ms. Gorman is no Margaret Ann Griffiths. If you're looking for performance it would be at the midpoint of your local slam, well out of the Winners' Circle but significantly better than the average print world author's reading. Amanda had practiced her delivery but still relied on text at the lectern and on teleprompters. This wasn't a random sampling of her collection. It was written for this auspicious occasion. The fact that Amanda Gorman didn't bother to memorize it speaks volumes.
On the one hand, it didn't work as poetry but, on the other hand, it was infinitely better than the cringeworthy efforts--if that's the right word--of Elizabeth Alexander and Richard Blanco. It did contain a little word play but, all in all, it was unremarkable except for one overused (e.g. "...compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions") technique. At this rate we can hope that by 2040 the caliber of verse will have reached the level of [c]rap lyrics and by 2100 it could pass as a first draft on Gazebo.
When day comes we ask ourselves, Where can we find light in this never-ending shade? The loss we carry, a sea we must wade We braved the belly of the beast We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace And the norms and notions of what just is Isn’t always just-ice. And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it Somehow we do it Somehow we weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken but simply unfinished We the successors of a country and a time Where a skinny black girl Descended from slaves and raised by a single mother Can dream of becoming president Only to find herself reciting for one. And yes we are far from polished far from pristine But that doesn’t mean that we are striving to form a union that is perfect. We are striving to forge our union with purpose To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man. And so we lift our gaze not to what stands between us but what stands before us We close the divide because we know to put our future first We must first put our differences aside We lay down our arms So we can reach out our arms To one another. We seek harm to none and harmony for all. Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true: That even as we grieved, we grew That even as we hurt, we hoped That even as we tired, we tried. That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious. Not because we will never again know defeat But because we will never again sow division. Scripture tells us to envision That everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree And no one shall make them afraid. If we’re to live up to our own time Then victory won’t lie in the blade But in all the bridges we’ve made That is the promise to glade The hill we climb If only we dare. Because being American is more than a pride we inherit It’s the past we step into And how we repair it. We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation Rather than share it Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy. And this effort very nearly succeeded. But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated. In this truth, in this faith we trust For while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us. This is the era of just redemption. We feared at its inception We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour but within it we found the power to author a new chapter. To offer hope and laughter to ourselves. So while we once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?, Now we assert How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us? We will not march back to what was but move to what shall be. A country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free. We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation. Our blunders become their burdens. But one thing is certain; If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright. So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left with. Every breath from my bronze pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one. We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the west, We will rise from the windswept northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution. We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states, we will rise from the sunbaked south. We will rebuild, reconcile and recover and every known nook of our nation and every corner called our country, our people diverse and beautiful will emerge battered and beautiful. When day comes we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid, The new dawn blooms as we free it. For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.
All of us understand that poetry is a mode of speech defined by memorable words. Prosody is the science of making verses easier to recall, either through concision or repetition. Even if one were to argue that "forgettable poetry" is not an oxymoron a tautological question of relevance arises: "If no one cares then who cares? If a tree falls in the forest does anybody give a damn?"
As with all speech, poetry requires an audience. The vast majority of people today cannot recite a stanza written in this millennium but can sing thousands of contemporary lyrics. As a practical matter, poetry is less a mode of speech than singing. Those concerned about adding the medium of music will bear in mind that long before the 20th century disappearance of spoken verse its most successful example was Shakespeare's theater.
What aspect of song penetrates our memories most efficiently? A drum beat might meet with blank stares. A chord progression might not be identified but two or three notes can spark recognition and many to sing along. Verse being a participation sport, this defines modern poetry just as "verbatim" has defined it from its inception.
Technically challenged poets speak vaguely of "musicality", a term that provokes cringing and eye rolls from geeks. The truth is that poetry needs more than facsimile; it requires actual music to attract an audience. (And, perhaps, a readership. Royalties from all contemporary poetry books combined wouldn't add up to those from one Leonard Cohen or Bob Dylan lyric collection.)
Content regents and corazoners will insist that the profound and poignant will attract attention [sooner or later]. All the evidence points to a very different conclusion. Melody is everything in song and, thus, verse. Allow us to demonstrate with two piercing examples:
As with so many of her songs, "Ain't Life a Brook" (1980)
is thought provoking and heart rending. This song includes one of the
greatest throwaway phrases of the last half century. However, the rambling
melody and accentual dimeter is not something you will sing in the shower. Or remember at length.
I watch you reading a book I get to thinking our love's a polished stone You give me a long drawn look I know pretty soon you're going to leave our home And of course I mind Especially when I'm thinking from my heart But life don't clickety-clack down a straight line track It comes together and it comes apart You say you hope I'm not the kind To make you feel obliged To go ticking through your time With a pained look in your eyes You give me the furniture, we'll divide the photographs Go out to dinner one more time Have ourselves a bottle of wine And a couple of laughs And when first you left I stayed so sad I wouldn't sleep I know that love's a gift, I thought yours was mine And something that I could keep Now I realize that time is not the only compromise But a bird in the hand could be an all night stand Between a blazing fire and a pocket of skies So I hope I'm not the kind To make you feel obliged To go ticking through your time With a pained look in your eyes I covered the furniture, I framed the photographs Went out to dinner one more time Had myself a bottle of wine and a couple of laughs And just the other day I got your letter in the mail I'm happy for you, its been so long You've been wanting a cabin and a backwoods trail And I think that's great I seem to find myself in school It's all okay, I just want to say I'm so relieved we didn't do it cruel But ain't life a brook Just when I get to feeling like a polished stone I give me along drawn look It's kind of a drag to find yourself alone And sometimes I mind Especially when I'm waiting on your heart But life don't clickety-clack down a straight line track It comes together and it comes apart 'Cause I know you're not the kind To make me feel obliged To go ticking through my time with a pained look In my eyes I sold the furniture, I put away the photographs Went out to dinner one more time Had myself a bottle of wine Had a couple of laughs And wasn't it fine
Contrast this with John Prine's child-like, tragicomic "Christmas in
Prison" (or almost any other Prine song), published in 1973:
Prine's trademark trinaries underscore the melody, creating an
earworm. His lyrics, while evocative and moving, are not near
Ferron's in depth but we, individually and collectively, carry them into
the future far more readily and easily than Ferron's work.
It was Christmas in prison And the food was real good We had turkey and pistols Carved out of wood And I dream of her always Even when I don't dream Her name's on my tongue And her blood's in my stream Wait awhile eternity Old mother nature's got nothing on me Come to me Run to me Come to me, now We're rolling My sweetheart We're flowing By God She reminds me of a chess game With someone I admire Or a picnic in the rain After a prairie fire Her heart is as big As this whole goddamn jail And she's sweeter than saccharine At a drug store sale Wait awhile eternity Old mother nature's got nothing on me Come to me Run to me Come to me, now We're rolling My sweetheart We're flowing By God The search light in the big yard Swings round with the gun And spotlights the snowflakes Like the dust in the sun It's Christmas in prison There'll be music tonight I'll probably get homesick I love you Goodnight Wait awhile eternity Old mother nature's got nothing on me Come to me Run to me Come to me, now We're rolling My sweetheart We're flowing By God
Again, the difference is prosody, yes, but mostly melody. So what can we do with this?
Even when English language poetry was alive it benefited from context. Shakespeare used plays not to change the English language, which he certainly accomplished, but to attract and entertain an audience. Contemporary dramatic poetry isn't "a thing" but there are other ways one can find listeners. In order of current and potential success these would include:
1. Song Lyrics
2. Humor/Parody
3. Narrational Poetry
4. Embedded Poetry
5. Occasional Poetry
Law of Poetry #171
If you have social media accounts, ask yourself: "How often have I Shared [on Facebook] or Retweeted [on Twitter] a stranger's contemporary poem with my [non-poet] friends?" Other than songs and jokes, that is.
We asked readers in four different active forums--novice, expert, blog, and social media--to imagine a serious poem (not song) that they might pass on to friends. No response. Not only could people not write an interesting poem, they couldn't even imagine one. This is to say that not only is English language poetry dead, but we can't envision it being alive. (N.B.: In non-anglophone demographics people cannot fathom a society where poetry is dead, a country where few can recite a stanza written this century.)
Law of Poetry #141
Just as it is failed artisans who blame their tools, only failed poets will blame their audience. It is especially absurd when that audience doesn't exist. If poetry is to revive, there needs to be well crafted verses of interest. More than that, though, it needs to overcome the negative stereotype of what Leonard Cohen called "other forms of poetry advertised as poetry": artless ranters, corazoners, linebreakers, cryptocrappers, et cetera.
Novelists, playwrights, and journalists do not present their work as "prose". Similarly, poets need to categorize their work by genre (e.g. comedy, drama, news, political commentary, romance, sports, horror, etc.), not mode of speech (i.e. prose versus poetry).
In the coming days we hope to address ways to use context to attract--or at least to not alienate--an audience.
What about readership?
Poetry is a mode of speech, predating the advent of writing by millennia. People read poems with a view toward quoting, if not performing, them--in their imaginations, at the very least. Listening and reading were a chicken-and-egg scenario, but in this case hearing came first, anthropologically at the macrocosmic level and chronologically in microcosm. Reading a poem allowed us to, among other things, examine why it worked so well when we heard it.
Put simply, if there is no audience, how can their be a readership? Why would anyone want to study failure?
Most poets keep their art and their politics separate. We have different blogs for each. Recently, a critic demanded to know why we pursue pressing issues in prose but not in poetry. It's a fair question, at least until we consider the difference between those two modes of communication. One spreads out in two dimensions, going viral as it spreads from one venue to the next. The other spreads in four dimensions, as it ascends into listener's memory and is carried verbatim into the future.
Without degrading professional standards we can write a news article in the morning, post it, and see it picked up by social or print media immediately. It is part of that 24- or 36-hour news cycle.
Prose is timely. You can get up the next morning and start all over.
Earl Gray's 42nd Law.
To write a poem worthy of the name may take, on average, a month. Find le mot juste, satisfying demands of sound, sense, cadence and form. Performing it may require weeks of additional practice and film editing before uploading it to, say, YouTube. Once presented, it needs to build an audience, one who can quote it on appropriate occasions. Were poetry alive, this may take another month. Given current reality, it may take a generation or more before enough listeners can inspire enough other listeners to hear and absorb your verses. Once they do, you will have a demographic affected by your words, one that might pass them on to future generations.
In any event, a poem about the current state of public affairs won't have an impact until well after the next election, if ever. If it does, though, it can cease and go on preventing inequities forever.
Poetry is timeless, even though its effect might not begin until long after your final sunrise.